Messing About With Matches
by meldahlie
Summary: How did the fire at Druid's Bottom really start? Missing moment from "Carrie's War" by Nina Bawden


Messing about with matches

How did the fire at Druid's Bottom really start?

Missing moment from _"Carrie's War"_ by Nina Bawden.

~:~

There is darkness. Darkness and silence. Nothing can be seen, nothing can be heard.

 _(Turn the lights out,_ _close_ _the door. T_ _he velvet stillness of a shut-in room,_ _you have it now.)_

There is darkness. Darkness and silence. Nothing can be seen, nothing can be heard. Nothing, except the tiniest noise. Once, and then again. A slow, metallic creak. Slowly, slowly. Creak, creak, creak.

 _(Get up and turn the door-knob in the dark.)_

Shush, shush, shush. Down, down in the darkness of the floor, something is moving, sliding. Shush, shush, shush – it goes back again. A little bump – a very little bump.

 _(Open the door, close it, quiet as you can. The door over the carpet, the bump of wood against the frame...)_

Darkness, silence. Nothing can be seen. Something can be heard. There is a something in the room, almost too quiet to be called a noise. The sighing breathing of the yew trees up the mountain is harsh and loud, compared to this.

 _(Hold your breath. Do you hear it now?)_

There is something in the dark, something in the velvet blackness, a stirring in the silent air.

Softly, softly, it moves across the room. Softly, softly, it moves back again. No thing moves within the darkness, only it.

It is here, it is over there. It bumps on nothing, but heavy fabric stirs.

 _(Tell me, have you curtains? On a rail?)_

Click! Click, click, click! And whirr-rrr-rrrr! Whirr-rrr-rrrr!

 _(Pull them, draw them, fling them back, as hasty as you please! But do not tug downwards 'till the ancient threadbare velvet cries in protest and comes whining, ripping from its rings.)_

Now you know. For the outside darkness is a little paler than the sheer blackness of the room. Darkness and darkness silhouette the bare bones of the window frame. If there was moonlight, if there were stars, they might glimmer in the darkness, flicker back up from the level stillness of the horse-pond outside the window.

But the night is darkness, and the something moves within it, as smooth as living fingers over bone. It is here, it is over there, and back again. There is a tiny 'pop', a smaller silence. And then a rattle, a little rattle in the dark.

 _(Take a lidded box and pull it open, put it down._ _And fetch-_ _)_

The room, the darkness, holds its breath in utter silence. WRRRKK! WRRRKK! HISSSS!

 _(Do you know the sound a striking match makes?)_

Light, burning light, brighter than a thousand suns! And the little point of blinding flame moves downwards through the dark.

WRRRKK! WRRRKK! HISSSS! WRRRKK! WRRRKK! HISSSS!

Dragons, fire-breathing dragons hatch at every hiss – bright points of pain within the darkness, screaming noise within the hush – but they are only little dragons in the dark. Down, down they go. The something sets them gently in their red velvet nest.

 _(Have you seen a jewellery box, big enough to hold a skull?)_

Dragons love such jewels, such treasure. All things rich and valuable, all the world strives to hoard. Emeralds, silver, silks, velvets. The little dragons creep outwards in the velvet darkness, pricking up their thousand noses, sliding their fiery snouts towards-

 _(Have you smelled burning dust and fabric?)_

And the something in the darkness feeds them gently on the treasures that they seek – the kindling squills, the gilt-backed books, the black diamonds from the copper scuttle on the hearth. It is a banquet for the dragons by the time the something stands.

 _(_ _Have you seen the brighter light of a fire that's taken hold? Have you seen the darker shadow that it casts?)_

Again, the shush-shush-shush across the floor. The something slips away, but there is no bump and click to shut the dragons in. They chuckle to themselves.

 _(_ _Have you heard paper crumble in the flames?_ _)_

Another room, and this time the dragons dance before the shining dresser drawers where the silver teaspoons live.

( _Have you smelled varnish heating?_ _H_ _eard it boil and bubble in a flame?)_

Another room, another, and another, and another. Behind each door along the hall the little dragons play, and feast, and grow. And then the shadow sits upon the stairs and marks the time by creeping up the steps. Up one, and one, and one.

 _(A shadow on the sundial in the dawn. Sometimes it is there, sometimes it is not. Is it light or dark?)_

There is light, now. Light and noise: the fierce red light and hellish hum of roaring flame. Flame that flickers along the hall, tears up the hardwood parquet blocks, rips the paper from the walls, claws at the full height of the lower bannister of the stairs, and the shadow scrambles up! Up, up, up, the blackness rises in the dancing glories of the flames – a vast shadow cast by a small figure on the stairs.

 _(Have you seen the Devil in a Book of Hours?)_

He stands tall, red in the flames, and the watching eyes shine with wild, maniacal glee.

 _HE, HE_ who sucks his teeth and clicks his voice and makes Her cry will never, never have it!

 _(Quickly! Cover your ears!)_

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The fire in the dining room has reached the sideboard and the old vintage bottles explode like gunshots. And at the noise the devil on the stairs is there no more.

There is no-one on the stairs.

No-one except a stunted, mute idiot known as Mister Johnny, who flees shrieking with animal terror from the flames – flees to wake Her and the boy and get them out down the back staircase, where no-one has been messing about with matches.

 _(Now_ _g_ _o to sleep._ _Put out the light._ _Don't dream. Good night._ _)_

~:~

A/N: The only explanation I can offer for this cheery little piece is Shakespeare's: _A sad tale's best for winter..._


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